


Your Mask Becomes You

by thefrogg



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-08 03:13:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefrogg/pseuds/thefrogg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint's perfectly happy being the only Omega on a team of Alphas. They're all on suppressants anyways.</p><p>At least until the villain-of-the-week invents a weaponized neutralizer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Phil's Not Dead.  
> Also: Contains [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/430149) excerpt later on.

"Far be it for _me_ to be the one to call for an end to the petty bickering, but the last time we had a five-way argument the Hulk gutted two levels of the 'carrier."

The silence that follows Tony's statement was in no way comfortable; rising pheremones and three days spent in completely pointless quarantine have everyone irritable. A briefing now, four Alphas stuck in a room (and waiting on a fifth, damnit), with only a non-dynamic alien and a single Beta to buffer them, is only making it worse.

"You think that's going to help?" Bruce says, the calm in his voice forced.

Tony's gaze flickers up from his Starkpad to meet Bruce's for a moment. "I think the Hulk just plain angry is destructive enough. Hulk in a territorial rage?" He shakes his head. "New York City has the third largest population of Alphas in the United States. It's number one in terms of population density. The only thing that is going to stop two weeks of riots is to send every Alpha who can get out of the city _out._ I've already approved temporary transfers or emergency leave for every SI employee based in New York who requests it, no questions asked. We need buffer units from the National Guard here, we need some way of scrubbing the air every six to eight hours - Ororo Munroe might be able to help, but that will only help out of doors."

"That's a worst-case scenario, Mr. Stark," Agent Coulson says mildly. "And a pretty extreme one at that."

"You think so? You're a _Beta,"_ and the word comes out too clipped to be a snarl, but the emotion behind it is the same. "There's four Alphas in this room alone, we live together, play together, work together, fight together, we've taken bullets and God knows what else to protect each other and we're all one wrong word from trying to claw each other to pieces and it's only been _four days_. The worst of it won't hit for another week." The Starkpad clatters to the tabletop. "What you fail to take into account is that the suppressants don't just block pheromones - they block the responses to those pheromones in other people."

"And you really think this is going to help?" Natasha's half out of her chair, muscles tense for battle.

"Sit." Tony pushes, just a little, just enough to see her slowly sinking back into her chair. Not enough to blow his cover. "There's no hotspots other than New York big enough to require the Avengers' attention. Don't give me that look, Coulson, you know it's true." He waits a beat for a response, a second, and continues when there isn't one. "The only attention the public needs right now from us is strategic, and I already told you: scatter the affected Alpha population as much as possible. Increase the number of unaffected Betas and off-cycle Omegas as much as you possibly can, as fast as you can. Scrub the damn pheromones out of the air. Sending five more Alphas into a city ready to blow--son of a bitch."

"Tony?" Steve's laser focused now, the anger no longer directionless and trapped behind clenched teeth, and Tony knows it's because the last time he heard that exact phrase, spoken in that tone, they wound up racing back to New York and a monument built to the sky.

"Not now, damnit," he mutters, hands shaking, fumbling for his Starkphone.

"Mr. Stark, this is hardly the time--"

Tony jerks his head up and glares, fingers stilled and white-knuckled around his phone. "We live together and play together and fight together and five Alphas would rip each other to shreds without more of a buffer than one Beta and an alien."

"Miss Potts is an Omega--"

"Who's gone far more often than she's there. Let me make this easy on you." Tony breathes deep, bracing himself for the loss of secrecy, of privacy, instinct already screaming at him to protect, to shelter, knowing his Omega - _his Omega,_ claimed but unknowing - was _suffering._ "This is my team, Coulson, _mine._ If Fury wants it back he can damn well fight me for it." And with that, he drops every bit of shielding he's built over a quarter century, every barrier, and _pushes._

He can see the flinching, the shocked disbelief at the truth of his dynamic, but no one tries to stop him as he turns back to his phone.


	2. Chapter 2

Clint twists in the sheets, a low, tortured growl catching in his throat as he tries to draw out the pleasure, one callused hand wrapped around his dick, back arched and flexing as three fingers rake over his prostate. It isn't enough, would never be enough to drown the sickening, empty ache of want he's been trying and failing to satisfy on his own. "This is why--" he bites out under his breath, shaking his head. "SHIELD sucks!"

The phone, long abandoned on his desk, lights up with an incoming call, and Clint laughs out a "Tony, you _bastard!"_ even as his body doubles over, orgasm ripping through him on a tide of imagery: Tony, relaxing in his workshop, coffee mug in hand, oil stains and grime darkening skin and cloth; Tony stripping out of his armor, sweaty and battered but bright eyed, satisfaction thrumming through his veins even as rising bruises darken bare arms; Tony, naked in the team shower, steam half emphasizing, half obscuring muscle normally hidden by the armor and natural build and the near-constant motion Tony always seemed to be in, as if he weren't moving life would pass him by.

The slick, provocative chorus of the Divinyl’s “I Touch Myself” starts over again as Clint’s breathing steadies. He forces himself to his feet, wiping his hands on the sheets. “I didn’t, Tony, I swear I didn’t think about you,” he whispers, shaking the cottony feeling away. “I tried not to but you had to actually _call me.”_ Then, it’s too late for regrets or recrimination.

“Sorry, can’t come to the briefing, better things to do,” he manages to choke out.

“Never mind about the briefing, no briefing, no mission, they’ve been canceled, just--” Clint can hear Phil’s protest in the pause that follows, scraping chairs as the rest of the team take offense with _“Clint’s team, he’s_ our _Omega”_ and _“We can’t fight if we can’t focus and this isn’t something that--”_ spoken in low and angry tones, while _‘Oh god, they know’_ and _‘Not on the carrier, damnit! (Too late, far too late for that now!)’_ circle each other warily in the back of his brain. “Tell me you aren’t in the vents. I’ll come after you if I have to, I swear I will--”

“No, I’m in my quarters, actually,” Clint answers, mouth quirking in a wry half-smile at the thought of Tony crawling through the vents trying to find him.

“Oh, good, good. Listen, I’m going to come get you and get you settled and ready to go, and Natasha’s going to get us transport - I’d just fly you down, with the suit, but I don’t think that’s really--”

“Tony,” Clint rasps out on a chuckle, stopping the almost frantic flow of words. “I’m in no shape to travel, you wouldn’t have called me--”

“No, wait, wait, you don’t understand. We’re going home in about ninety minutes, promise.” And there’s a short “Excuse me” in the background, more scraping chairs as Natasha leaves what must be the conference room. “Nat’s gone to make arrangements, I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Tony, there’s no way--It’s been a long time since--” The words get stuck in his throat even as a snaking warmth curls itself in his belly.

“Do you trust me?”

“Tony? Why are you--do you even have to ask that question?” That _hurts,_ that Tony could ask, could _doubt._ “Yes, of course--Tony! Don’t ever ask me that, not--”

“Can I come in?” Clint hears in stereo, clear from the phone, tinny and muffled from the door. Tony taps on it a few times, one-knuckled, the way Clint knows he does when he’s not sure of his reception.

“Can you get the lock?”

“Can I get the lock, he says,” Tony grumbles good-naturedly, and the door slides open a moment later. “I guess that answers that question,” he says as the door closes behind him.

Clint winces and looks away, hands pulling nervously at the sheets, only to glance back up at the sound of Tony’s phone hitting the desk.

“You know, I didn’t ask you if you trusted me because I didn’t think you did.” Tony pauses, toeing his too-expensive shoes off and pulling his shirt over his head, leaving the arc reactor to tint the small room faintly blue. “It’s quite obvious that you _do,_ it’s just that there are different kinds of trust. I wasn’t asking you if you trusted me with your health or your life or your bow. This is _different,”_ and he puts a subtle emphasis on the word that conveys so much, and Clint can feel something teasing at the edge of his mind, something strangely familiar and comforting and hopeful.

Clint swallows hard, lips twisting into a grimace. “Yes. You know I can’t--I don’t have--” and he stumbles to a halt, throat tight, and stares at the wall.

“You going to press charges afterwards?” Tony asks, one eyebrow raised in amusement.

A harsh laugh escapes before Clint can stop it, scraping the side of one hand down his flank in an attempt to assuage the growing hunger for _touch._ “I can’t,” he says, turning himself sideways on the bed back against the wall and looking up at Tony; he can feel a suspicious burn in his eyes, but refuses to look away as Tony drags the chair over and sat down. Their knees brush, and the sensation of cloth against his skin is enough to make him shut his eyes. 

“I’m guessing there was a _here_ somewhere in that ‘I don’t have’ line.”

“Something like that,” Clint says, cracking his eyes open again to see the concern and affection on Tony’s face; he can’t help but glance down only to find Tony half-hard, as compared to his own not-quite-desperate. “You aren’t--” and he stops at the strangely familiar sensation again, a brush against his mind that should have terrified and enraged him, after everything with Loki, but doesn’t.

“Not an Alpha,” Tony admits, and he’s smiling reassurance and safety, and Clint just wants to curl up against him and tuck his nose in the hollow of Tony’s shoulder where the sweat pools and his scent would be the strongest, and...and maybe rub off against him, if Tony will let him.

“You’re serious,” Clint says, unable to keep himself from leaning forward, sliding both arms down the outside of his thighs and hoping Tony’s not seeing the way it makes his dick twitch.

“I just tanked the rest of the team and Coulson to cancel that briefing,” Tony says, reaching out to tug gently on Clint’s wrist. “You can touch me if you like, you know. It works better that way.”

Clint shudders, his voice failing him at the offer and he knows, he knows that’s why Tony’s here, what Tony’s offering him even if it’s just because he’s a meta, just because he doesn’t have to-- “Can I just,” he starts, just to cut off that train of thought, but he can’t even finish the question.

“Will you let me help? Let me give you time to get home, after?”

Clint’s already moving forward, sliding to the edge of the bed. “Like that, that--” Clint makes a clumsy, uncoordinated gesture near his temple, fingers brushing the outer curve of his ear, and he ducks, whining in the back of his throat.

“Easy, Clint, come on.” Tony sounds like he’s coaxing a skittish animal, and Clint would be embarrassed, _mortified,_ but right now it’s _perfect_ and he just wants more of it, more of Tony’s voice in his ears, more of the thumb that’s tracing distracting circles at the join of hand to wrist, more of the scent that says _Alpha_ but at the same time welcomes him home. “Yes, it’s _like that,_ I didn’t want to--make things more difficult.”

 _“Didn’t want to scare you,”_ Clint hears, and he doesn’t take offense, because he can’t, and because he’d thought the same thing, and Tony’s a teammate and a friend and maybe something more and isn’t going to torment him with it. “Please, yes, I don’t want--”

Tony cuts him off with a laugh and an “It’s okay, I get the idea,” using his grip on Clint’s wrist to pull him further off the bed, until he’s practically in Tony’s lap, knees splayed to either side, and Clint can do what he wants, nose pressed to skin, the scent still muffled from the fading effects of the suppressants.

“Please,” Clint mumbles into Tony’s shoulder, not caring that he sounds pathetic, Tony’s whispered, “It’s okay, come on, I know you want to touch me, go ahead,” soothing and inviting him to slide his captured wrist free and clutch at a bare hip. His fingers dig into hard muscle, knowing how strong Tony is, how strong he has to be to use the armor, to _make_ the armor in the first place, and uses the leverage offered to get closer, slip one leg off the chair. Muscle ripples involuntarily as Tony wraps one arm around him, blunt nails catching on his spine and pulling him in, answering his unspoken question. He lets his other leg slide off the chair, leaving himself wide open and pressed chest-to-chest all the way down, the edge of Tony’s belt digging into his thighs, the crush of linen soft against his balls.

“What can I do to help?” Tony asks, lips pressed against the tender skin below Clint’s ear; his free hand strokes down Clint’s side, and along the outside of his thigh and back up again, pressure ghost-light. Clint squirms at the sensation, biting back a groan as his dick rubs more firmly against Tony’s stomach, only to get a firmer kiss on his neck. “Let it out, let me hear you. What do you need from me?” he asks again, but Clint can already tell he’s tensed his stomach muscles, giving him something to push against, slip warm-sticky-wet between them.

“Just--” Clint starts, and licks his teeth, licks past his lips and tastes skin and sweat and home before trying again, “Just talk to me, and harder,” he brushes the back of Tony’s hand hesitantly, the one barely touching him, and gets a “Tell me when” and a firming stroke, until his thigh feels painted with the warmth of Tony’s fingers. “Good, that’s good, now _talk_ to me,” he mutters into Tony’s jaw when it’s enough, enough to keep him grounded as he threads his free arm under Tony’s, straight up his shoulder so his chin brushes his fingertips where they dig into the skin. He settles, breathing deep and holding on, closing his eyes, letting the constant motion of Tony’s hand provide the friction on his cock (up and down his side, raking across his lower ribs, back and forth in random patterns across his thigh), Tony’s voice in his ear low and constant, all _“You’re gorgeous”_ and _“so trusting, thank you for trusting me, you don’t know--”_ and _“I’ve got you, it’s all right, you can let go,”_ and all Clint can think of is how grateful he is as he starts to shiver, the rasp of Tony’s beard soft against his skin, the arc reactor leaving a blurred bruise on his chest. The pain’s dull, small, something he would ignore, but now it’s just delicious counterpoint, the slip-slide of his cock against Tony’s belly sweet torment that drags deep groans from him with every breath.

It’s not enough until it _is,_ and Clint’s shaking apart, Tony’s hands keeping him steady, pinning him in place as he paints them both with streaks of white, sudden pleasure making him clutch at Tony’s shoulder, his hip, leave a reddened bite to mark his resting place.

“That’s it, easy there,” Tony whispers, lips grazing his jaw as he pants, breathing slowing as Tony runs a gentle hand up and down his back. There’s more words, but he doesn’t care, just lets himself float, the gentle push washing over him, and he can feel the curl of heat subside, the ache of _again_ content to wait as Tony soothes the tension out of his muscles, pets him into a boneless heap of contentment.

“Clint?” His name falls softly from Tony’s lips, rough and hesitant, and Clint grunts in answer, scrubbing his cheek against smooth skin. “That won’t hold for long, and we need to get you home. And you need a shower.”

Clint sighs in answer and scoots himself backwards, sliding off of Tony’s lap and to his feet with a steadying hand on his hip, a firm grip on his arm. He needs it, balance shot, muscles loose and heavy from orgasm and attention. Once on his feet, though, he can’t help himself and lets himself just _look,_ taking in the features that are so familiar, so comforting, and try not to think about just how badly this could have gone. “I.” He has to shut his eyes, a knot of guilt and awkwardness lodging in his throat. “Thank you, you didn’t, don’t--”

“Clint,” Tony stops his fumbling speech and gets to his feet, so little space between them they’re all but nose-to-nose. “I’ve spent the last few decades protecting every Omega I came in contact with if it was necessary, because that’s who and what I am. You’re the only one I’ve ever called _mine,”_ and the word is growled out, layered with a _push_ of possessiveness, pride and love and protectiveness twisted inside.

Clint’s too stunned to avoid the hand that curls around his neck, squeezing in gentle warning before sliding back around to cup his jaw. He can’t help but lean into it, eyelids falling to half-mast as calloused fingertips find the sensitive spot between joint and earlobe.

“You trusted me with yourself, Clint, trust me when I say I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to.” Clint manages a shaky, shocky nod, reaching to grab hold of Tony’s arm and getting drawn into a hug before Tony draws back. “Now shoo, you need a shower. I’m not in the mood to fight off every Alpha on the ‘carrier for what’s mine.” The smirk dancing on Tony’s lips lightens the implied threat.

“Not going to join me? Save some water?” And somehow it’s just that easy, the language of teasing and sarcasm and innuendo they’ve always always communicated in falling back into place. 

The laughter that follows him into the bathroom sounds like freedom.


	3. Chapter 3

“Captain!” Fury’s voice echoes oddly in the mostly-empty hanger. “What the hell is going on? You’re team’s supposed to be--”

“I would suggest,” Steve mutters through clenched teeth, cutting him off, “not being _aggressive_ around us right now. Sir.” He doesn’t dare look up, staring instead off across the hanger as Fury approaches.

The sound of Fury’s footsteps comes to a halt a few feet away. He says nothing, taking the time, Steve supposes, to take in the scene: empty quinjet, back hatch open, Natasha leaning against the side; Banner, sitting on a crate, Starkpad in hand and sleeves rolled up to his elbows; Thor, Mjolnir swinging idly from his belt as he paces the length of the plane just under the wing joint only to stop and stare balefully at the Director. “Doctor, your eyes--”

“--are green, we know,” Bruce answers, rising to his feet with a fluidity that’s all Hulk. “The Other Guy and I are strangely...in accord right now.”

“Where’s Stark and Barton?” Fury asks after a lengthy pause, managing to keep his voice low but not hide the frustration. “And why have you evacuated this hanger and corridors on three levels?”

“Right here.” A voice rings out behind him, and Steve turns to watch Tony approach, all cool confident swagger. Clint’s half a step behind him, one hand twitching at his side, the other wrapped across his chest and hanging onto the straps of his tactical vest.

Everyone shifts then, responding to Clint’s presence more than Tony’s usual impeccable timing: Natasha peels herself away from the plane, leaving the approach clear, her body language open and unthreatening (or as unthreatening as she ever is, anyway); Bruce hooks one foot around the crate and kicks it out of the way, his muscles swelling enough to stretch his shirt and tint his skin green as he turns all of his attention to Clint; Thor moves up alongside Natasha, staying carefully out of arm’s reach.

Steve just moves forward, stepping firmly between Fury and Clint.

“You have _got_ to be kidding me,” Fury groans, drawing growls and hisses and aborted threat-strikes from all sides.

“I did try and tell you--”

Fury snorts. “You kind of left out the fact that Barton’s _an Omega,_ Captain.”

Steve clenches his fists, half twisting around so he can see Fury out of one eye. “You _really_ don’t want to antagonize us right now, sir.”

“No, go ahead, antagonize us,” Tony puts in with a wicked grin. “That way I can go ahead and not tell you the rest of it.”

Fury doesn’t rise to the bait, giving Tony a level stare instead.

“Clint, on the jet. You’re not piloting,” Tony adds unnecessarily as Clint starts forward, staying out of reach of everyone. “Nobody touches him.”

“You’re putting a cycling Omega on a plane with four Alphas,” Fury says once Clint’s disappeared up the ramp. “Sounds like a suicide mission, flying a plane into New York like that. The last time someone pulled that stunt, it didn't turn out well for anyone.”

Steve scowls, not understanding the implication, and then he remembers the history lessons he'd had about the War on Terror and his blood runs cold. Fury’s hanging from his fist by the front of his trench coat, toes a few inches off the ground, before he realizes he’s moved. 

“Put me _down,_ Captain!”

“I thought I told you not to get aggressive with us, _sir,”_ Steve shoots back, the _sir_ sounding like an epithet. “I think calling Tony a terrorist falls well within that category.”

Tony just laughs, shaking his head a little. “I guess I do get to go ahead and not tell you the rest then.” Tony steps up beside him. “Nice hold.”

“Take your time,” Natasha says from somewhere closer to the quinjet. “I’ll get everyone else settled and start preflight.” They don’t bother to acknowledge, but the sound of her stiletto heels on the deck is obvious between Thor’s heavy footfalls and Bruce’s light steps, and then the three of them are alone.

“Let me explain to you how this works,” Tony starts. “You are going to leave the fact that Clint is an Omega out of everything. Paperwork, medical records, other people’s ears, _everything._ It’s blatantly obvious you didn’t know before now, so it’s equally obvious he doesn’t care for people to know, so it goes no further. Understand?”

Steve can feel the edge of the _push_ \- more like a _shove_ \- Tony gives Fury, and it makes him growl again, want nothing more than to eliminate the threat to Clint, to Tony.

“Jesus _fuck,_ Stark, you’re--” _A meta-Alpha,_ Steve’s mind finishes for him, but Fury doesn’t get to finish the sentence.

 _“Understand?”_ And this time there’s an imperative to answer, not just _obey._ Some small part of Steve’s brain that isn’t entirely under the thrall of instinct hopes they haven’t burnt this bridge, that there will be opportunity to repair the damage this has to be doing.

Because the damage is there, written in the pallor of Fury’s face. “Understood.”

“I don’t think I need to tell you that I’m still just an Alpha.”

Fury snorts. “That one I figured out, thanks.”

Steve can feel the dark anger sweeping over Tony, even if he can’t see it.

“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, Fury, I have _never_ used it against you, or SHIELD, or anyone or anything that wasn’t about to abuse the fuck out of an Omega. I don’t even use it to get myself out of trouble,” Tony hissed. “This is _my team,_ my home, my rules, my people to protect and _my Omega._ In the field I take orders from Captain America unless I have information he doesn’t. I take orders from you because you can see the big picture, and oh, by the way, because I may hate your methods, but I trust you to have my back when I goddamned need it,” and the shock at that admission, even when spoken in anger, is all too clear and might just repair the damage Tony did only moments before.

“Put me down, Steve,” Fury says, and Steve didn’t even know he could speak that way, coaxing and gentle instead of commanding, or frustrated or angry as hell. The use of his first name is telling.

Still, Steve waits, glaring, until he sees Tony nod once from the corner of his eye, and slowly lowers Fury to the deck. He’s even nice enough to let him get his balance back before letting go, instead of just dropping him, but does nothing for the finger-marks in his coat.

“Coulson has the plan for the city?”

“What I could think of, considering.” 

Steve can hear the bitter impatience underneath the business, and says nothing.

“Get out of here, take care of Clint. And Tony,” Fury waits, lets Tony stop mid-turn. “Let me know when you’re ready to come up for air. If he’s been hiding it as long as I think he has, it’ll be a while.”

Steve manages a brisk nod and a perfunctory “sir” before following Tony to the plane; he’s pretty sure he’s the only one to hear Fury’s quiet, “And you say you don’t play well with others,” spoken with pride and affection.

“Clint?”

Steve has to quick-step to not run into Tony, easing to one side and taking a seat opposite and several back from where Clint huddles next to the bulkhead. Everyone’s attention is on him, much as it had been in the hanger, but this time Clint seems to be trying to disappear into the shadows.

Clint shakes his head finally. “I’m not about to...jump anybody, just don’t get near me. I’ll survive,” he finishes, voice strained, shifting further back.

Steve looks away, recognizing the need to be ignored, even though his instincts are telling him to touch, to _take. ___

“Tony, sit,” Natasha calls from the pilot’s seat. “I’m taking this bird home.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tony replies cheerfully, taking the seat next to Steve.

Steve’s grateful for the company, and risks pressing his knee against Tony’s as he fastens his harness. “Why didn’t you tell us you were--” he asks softly, voice nearly drowned by the engines revving.

Tony presses back, until Steve can feel the warmth of him from waist to mid-calf, even as he senses the withdrawal. “Most Alphas tend to think that just because a meta _can_ overpower them they _will.”_ Tony doesn’t look at him, instead just closes his eyes and tips his head back against the wall.

“Abraham Lincoln, Franklin D. Roosevelt, Margaret Thatcher.” Steve wraps one broad hand around Tony’s thigh and squeezes gently. “The only real information any of the rest of us have is from those who died and left a record.”

“Those who haven’t live in fear of being hunted down and forced to _use it,”_ Tony murmurs, still refusing to look at him.

“You think we’d let them? Tony, you stand among the best humanity has to offer - you did that before we knew, we aren’t going to think less of you now.” Steve makes a noise of disgruntlement. “I’d make a terrible meta, you know--”

“No, you--”

“Tony.” Clint’s voice is raspy, shaky, too close, and Tony and Steve both flinch at the sound of it, turning to find him on one knee in front of them. Tony reaches forward to _touch_ before aborting the motion and dropping his hand awkwardly. “None of us have the ethics necessary for it. Steve would never hold it back. Tasha and I would use it for all the wrong reasons, Bruce would never use it at all, and Thor has no understanding of it.” He stops, swallows, looks down and away, gathering himself before staring Tony in the eye. “As for hunting you down? We--okay, you and Pepper--got the Army off the doc’s back. Coulson knows when to keep his mouth shut. Fury might ask for help for one of the Omegas under his command, but he’s not going to be stupid. Anyone else, we can handle, one way or another.”

Steve can hear blood and death in that last statement. “Fury wanted us to be a _team,”_ he says quietly, squeezing Tony’s leg again. “He got one, whether he likes it or not.”

Clint lets out a hoarse laugh. “I don’t think this is the kind of team bonding he had in mind.” The smile is strained, barely meeting his eyes; it’s all too obvious whatever Tony had done to take the edge off is unraveling, and that Clint is becoming more and more uncomfortable in his own skin.

“Steve, I need you to move down a seat.” Tony’s already unbuckling his harness as he says it, pushing the crossed straps over his head. Steve lets go reluctantly, pulling his own harness off and scooting over. Tony’s shirt puddles on the seat between them a moment later. “Clint.” He holds a hand out in invitation.

The conflict on Clint’s face is painful to see; Steve aches to ease it, but stifles the impulse. “I--not on the plane.” 

Tony wiggles his fingers. “Skin contact and scent helps. C’mere.”

Clint gives him an oddly wary look, creeping towards him, trusting almost despite himself. Steve reaches over, gets a hand under Clint’s leg and helps him get up on the seat, helps him sprawl over Tony’s body, nose in the crook of his neck.

There are sounds coming from him now, choking, gasping sounds, muffled by Tony’s skin and nearly hidden under the plane’s engines.

Steve can hear the near-constant litany of “Easy there, it’s okay, you’re in the doldrums now, I know it’s uncomfortable, but we’ll get you home and take care of you and--” Tony’s murmuring in Clint’s ear, not because the words are clear, but because that’s the kind of man Tony is, and he can see the man’s lips moving. He catches Tony’s eye and clasps his arm, then gives them what privacy he can, wandering up to the front, where Bruce is answering Thor’s questions.

“How is he?” Natasha asks, pitching her voice so the four of them could hear, but it wouldn’t carry to the back.

“He’s in the doldrums. Tony’s got it.”

The look of confusion on Thor’s face prompts Bruce to explain, “Clint’s not ready for another round, but he’s not far enough into his cycle to fall into the resting state. His instincts are fighting his body and from what we understand it’s really uncomfortable. Omegas call it the doldrums.” 

“Is there nothing--” Thor starts, all but whispering.

“Just to ride it out. I’d rather _this_ here on the plane than--” Steve feels his ears start to burn. “It won’t hurt him. And it gives us time to get him home.”

“Let’s hope it holds long enough.” Natasha’s already pushing the jet as much as she dares; five minutes later, they’re landing on the Tower roof, touchdown whisper-soft.


	4. Chapter 4

Natasha makes them all wait until she's shut the plane down to leave it, all except Clint, who's so uncomfortable now he scrambles off Tony's lap and promptly falls on his ass in his haste. The small separation is barely enough to calm their own instincts, let the growls and minor hierarchy challenges subside; she could (probably) kill anyone on the plane if she had to, but she's the least helpful to Clint right now.

It won't stop her from acting as Clint's conscience. She knows where his lines are drawn.

"Don't crowd him, don't block the exits," she mutters, getting a nod from Steve and a sardonic grin from Tony; the latter makes her wonder just how much experience he has with cycling Omegas.

Clint's waiting for them, still on the top level, the communal level, and she can only be thankful they're not going to be crammed in an elevator, that he has the presence of mind not to cage any of them like that. He's tugging ineffectually at fastenings, the pattern familiar, a tell he gives into only when he's at his most agitated, when it doesn't matter: wristguard straps, glove, shoulder, hip, main zipper.

He doesn't pay them any attention as they file in, ranging themselves in a half-circle around him. It worries her, makes her want to touch, to strip his gear off and smooth calloused hands over skin that has to hurt by now. "Clint?"

He turns to look at her, pupils blown wide.

"I can try--" she starts, and it's tentative - this is all up to Clint, they know, they aren't going to push, they can't, not even with the rising instincts thrumming through their veins. And it's _I,_ not _we,_ there's no notarized letter, she knows he hasn't made arrangements even though--

"No, it's." Clint swallows hard, right hand tearing at his wristguard, the straps twisted by the time he gets it off and tosses it aside carelessly. "JARVIS." The glove follows. Natasha makes a mental note of it, reminds herself to requisition replacements.

"Sir, your vital signs are--" and if an AI, even Tony's AI, can sound alarmed, JARVIS is.

"Omega," Clint cuts him off, and he repeats it, slurring the words together. "Omegaomegaomega, off my suppressants, yeah, I'm...not good right now. Thank you."

"I take it you would like me to play a certain video then?"

"Just the one," and Natasha can see the furious blush, the embarrassment steaming off of Clint as he ducks his head.

"Of course, sir." 

The holographic projector lights up, and another Clint appears, still battle-weary from that first mission, the Chitauri attack still shining raw in his eyes, the bruises a darker purple-edged blue.

“This thing on?” the recording asks. “This is Clint Barton, duh, Avengers Omega, even though the rest of them don’t know it. Course, you guys know it _now,_ if you’re watching this, and goddamn I hope you never have to. But.” He stops to take a deep breath and steady himself. “Figured I’d better do something not so cliched as a stupid letter, since...well. Anyways.

“I, Clint Barton, hereby grant the following people permission to accompany me, either singly or in any combination, through what will undoubtedly be a shockingly and possibly traumatic unplanned heat cycle: Tony Stark, code name Iron Man; Steve Rogers, the original Captain America; Natasha Romanoff aka Black Widow; Thor Odinson; and Dr. Bruce Banner with or without the big green guy.

“There is another video specifying what I’ll allow; if Natasha Romanoff is present and agreeable to remain, please ignore it and just listen to her.”

“I’m staying,” Natasha says, talking over Clint’s questioning JARVIS over legalities and whether the statement was enough, and then the projector turns off.

“Good,” Clint chokes out a laugh. “I didn’t--it was bad enough making the damn recordings--”

“Thank you,” Tony says fervently, and he moves forward despite the hisses of warning, ignores the way Clint’s gone rigid to wrap him in a hug, skin-and-arc-reactor to neoprene. “Thank you,” he says again, “that can’t have been easy.”

“Jesus, Tony,” and Clint sounds strangled, like the words are struggling to stay in his throat. Natasha watches as his arms come up, hands patting at Tony’s ribcage before he squirms his way free, drawing attention to the bruises he must have put there before they’d left the helicarrier.

She wants to help, wants to peel the armor off, rub her face on the hard planes of his chest, his belly--

“My room, your room, or guest room?” Tony’s voice jolts them all out of daydreams, all except maybe Thor, who’s still watching intently, trying to understand things like instinct and heat cycle that are so very foreign to him.

This isn’t the doldrums now, not really, she can see it, that edge of discomfort becoming less _not ready_ and more simple embarrassment over his situation, and they need to move.

Clint just stands there though, blinking--

“We can’t manage the elevator right now. _My room_ is on this level for a variety of reasons, and I’m always stocked for a cycle because, you know, _Pepper,”_ and the _meta-Alpha_ goes unsaid. “Not about to invite anybody to your room up here - Yes, I know it’s just a crash pad, but everyone _has_ a preferred room on this floor, and--”

“Your room, god, Tony, just...” He shudders, and Natasha has to wonder just how long he’s been trying to deal with this alone, how hard it’s going to be for him to let go, how bad his reaction is going to be once he does.

“We should move,” she says, not wanting to add rugburn and preventable muscle aches to the list of injuries they’re all (save perhaps Thor and Steve) going to be nursing. No one moves, though, and she has to prompt-- “Clint.” She waits until he looks up at her, ears still red, still restless. “You can take it off,” she says, nodding at his hand, still playing with the fastenings to his tunic. “I’ll be naked by the time we get there. And something tells me the others won’t be far behind.”

And if they don’t take that as an _order,_ well. Clint put her in charge, didn’t he?


	5. Chapter 5

The trip to Tony's bedroom is a blur of disjointed fragments: his own hands tearing at his tunic; the sound of Thor's breastplate hitting the floor with a dull thud; his frustration at being unable to get his boots off, and the caught fist that never makes it to the wall; Thor catching him around the waist and lifting him bodily off the floor so the others can strip him of the rest of his clothes, teeth sinking into his shoulder to distract him; lust-and-violence spurring a wave of fear that has him clamping down on what little control he has left.

They're all there, shedding the last few bits of clothing, and then naked, and all Clint can see is the sea of Egyptian cotton, rumpled sheets and comforter shoved to the foot of the bed. Tony's scent is pervasive here, and he wants to just _wallow_ in it, let it soothe the burn and ache and _emptiness_ that threatens his sanity.

The touch on his back is tentative, and obviously Natasha; he recognizes the pattern of calluses, and her hand is too small and at the wrong angle for anyone else. He shivers, unsure, his body confused between _need_ and _wrong._

"Clint?"

Clint clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms as he struggles with words. "I. Didn't exactly--didn't ask--" Because as much as he's losing the ability to _think,_ he can't say that the choice is entirely up to him, either. "You sure you want--"

Natasha laughs, the sound a lower register than he's used to having directed at him. "We all just walked out on Fury. _And_ Coulson." He finds himself pulled against her, her breasts flattened against his back, hands carefully avoiding the spots he knows will soon be too sensitive not to be dangerous. "You're _ours."_ And there are sharp teeth at the back of his neck, tiny nips rather than the kind of bite from the hallway, still throbbing, but it's enough to make him want to believe--

"Verily, warrior-bonds such as this are common enough in Asgard." Thor's earnest affirmation draws a snort of laughter from Tony. "I had been confused by the lack of such, but if you will have me--I am not _Alpha,_ as Bruce has said you need--"

A wordless growl escapes him, knuckles whitening, the pain of too-tight fists enough, barely. "You don't understand, I'm not--I won't be _safe--"_

Natasha's grip firms, thumbs brushing the bottom of his ribcage until his stomach muscles ripple in response. "Five of us, and I can take you on my own."

"You can't let go, can you?" Clint hears the calculation in Tony's voice, the careful restraint. “How long have you been fighting this?”

“Two this morning,” Clint manages, clenching his teeth against the humiliation of it.

“Yeah, no, this isn’t working. We’ve already established that everyone’s here because we want to be. As for you--” and Tony pokes him in the arm, “--I think you’ve suffered enough. Do you need a push?”

 _That_ gets Clint’s attention. “You can--” Tony looks strange, resolved, worried, resigned--

“Not my first time at the rodeo.” And Clint hears the _every Omega I came in contact with,_ but also the _You’re the only one I’ve ever called_ mine. “Nat, let go.”

The arms around him uncoil themselves, and the wall of soft heat at his back disappears; there’s other movement around him, Steve and Bruce and Thor giving him space, but it doesn’t matter, none of it matters except the look in Tony’s eyes, like he’s the only thing with meaning, and the inexorable wash of _safe_ and _want_ welling up from somewhere that wasn’t _him._ It makes him hyper-aware of his own body, sweat-damp skin and hard cock slick with precome, muscles tense with strain, and his control doesn’t so much snap as fray to nothing, taking his ability to think with it.

Instinct takes over, and there’s a body beneath him, pinned to the bed, soft sheets against his knees, olive skin and blue light, a hard cock in his free hand as he kneels up, back curved like the arms of his bow--

“Jesus, no, you haven’t--You’ll _tear yourself--!”_ panicked sounds, and a struggle--

“I have him, Tony--” Arms hook under his shoulders, and yank him backwards and to one side, and he can’t fight the weight that rolls him over, soft flesh against his back, calves over his own thighs, and splays him wide, turtled, desperate--he knows that voice, trusts that voice, but there’s a fire in his blood and an ache in his groin and she won’t be enough--slams his head back trying to break free, meets nothing. “Thor, get his hands, don’t let go, not until I say--”

The holds on his ankles are awkward, makeshift; unlike the iron grips on his wrists, but the urge to thrash, to seek and _take_ what his body needs is soothed by the heavy blanket of _calm_ and _breathe_ that sweeps over him, reducing him to panting, and then there’s _hot_ and _wet_ where he needs it, suction that makes him buck in tiny helpless thrusts, a slick touch lower and pushing in as soft words are traded back and forth, murmur _“Easy”_ and _“We have you”_ and _“Hold on”_ in his ears. Touch becomes stretch becomes burn, and the discomfort fades quickly as his body adjusts to getting what it wants, what he _needs,_ and he rumbles deep in his chest, nearly drowning out the _“Clint?”_ and _“He’s not listening”_ and _“Get ready, don’t want to--”,_ the slide of a body up and over and into his own, the arms and legs and hands pinning him down suddenly _gone,_ and he wraps himself around hot skin and a metal case and glows just a little bit, pale blue light made gold and red shining through the hard wall of chest muscles. 

“There we go,” that same soft voice, off to the side now, but he doesn’t care, ignores the soft lips brushing his arm, the nails scratching gently at his scalp, just focusing on the sweet pressure and stretch, the slide of flesh-into-flesh as he rocks his hips, the _“I’ve got you”_ and _“feel so good wrapped around me”_ mouthed against his jaw, the scrape of beard on his neck. It’s not enough, not deep enough, not hard enough, and he pushes, pulls, flipping them over, sends that voice scrambling to give him room, and just _takes_ what he wants, shifting until white sparks of pleasure shoot up his spine, until he can bite down on a collarbone, until fingers knot in hair and thumbs trace the edges of his ears, until there’s another hand, small and callused around his dick and it’s too late, whine muffled by the flesh in his mouth, sticky-wet splatters on his chest.

The relief becomes white noise, the hunger satisfied if not sated, contentment coiling in his belly as rough hands, scarred hands run down his spine, _“Gorgeous”_ and _“See, nobody got hurt”_ and _“You’re fine, we’re fine, it’s all good”_ easing him down from the high of a cycle-driven orgasm. _Tony,_ his mind registers, arc reactor still pressed into his skin, their bodies still locked together, and he nuzzles a little, letting go of Tony’s arm to trace the blurred marks on his shoulder. 

“You back with us?” Tony asks, and Clint can feel the vibrations everywhere they touch, and it’s almost too much, too sensitive, but he hasn’t recovered enough to move, and he doesn’t want to lose the connection just yet.

He licks the rising bruise instead of answering, setting teeth back in the slow-fading dents before letting go. Talking will lead to more questioning, more doubt, and he doesn’t want it, doesn’t want to lose this cocoon of belonging: Tony cushioning his body with his own, hands unbearably tender on his hips, his back; Natasha curled next to them, radiating warmth as she delicately licks her hand clean; Steve down near the foot of the bed, sketchpad on his knees, pencil in hand and a second tucked behind one ear and he vaguely remembers the same soft scratch of pencil-on-paper he’s hearing now, a strange but familiar comfort; Bruce sitting yoga-style above Natasha, skin and eyes still shaded green; Thor on his other side, up at the head of the bed, aroused and patient the way only someone immortal can be.

Natasha laughs deep in her throat, the sound sly and wicked, and he raises his head enough to give her a half-hearted glare. “He’s back,” she says. “Feel better?” 

Clint gives her a grumbling, wordless answer, and thinks about flipping her off; it’d take too much effort, he decides a moment later. And while she wouldn’t take it out on him now, not while he’s cycling, she’d make him pay for it later, and he’d really rather not have to watch his back--and oh, _that_ was a bad thought, his body ready to rest, to shut down, but his instincts still screaming _helpless is not an option._

“Hey, hey, what was that?” Tony’s hands firm, one on his shoulder, the other on the sweet curve of a hip. 

_‘That was me being an idiot and unable to do anything about it,’_ Clint thinks, body suddenly tense with an adrenaline rush that will make the crash so much worse. 

“Don’t even think about leaving this bed.” The words are as much warning as reassurance, and Thor’s easing off the bed, between Clint and the door.

Clint forces himself away from Tony, the hands on him tightening before falling free; Natasha scoots herself backwards, giving him room to collapse on the sheets, gasping for air and he can’t stay still, can’t let his cycle drown him in somnolence so his body can recharge.

“Clint.” Natasha brushes her fingers over his shoulder, sliding across the wing of his collarbone to curl around his throat.

Her understanding isn’t enough to make him relax, but it’s enough to stop the impending panic, enough to leave him shivering, arms and legs tucked, a broken whine escaping him as Natasha lets go, slipping off the far side of the bed.

“Stay, don’t touch him.” The words are harsh, but they aren’t for him, and he gets out a ragged _“Hurry”_ as she leaves the room.


	6. Chapter 6

"JARVIS, elevator, my level," Natasha orders once Tony's door is shut behind her.

"Of course."

Natasha runs, heedless of her own nudity. This is nothing, she's finished ops like this before, the shock at seeing her _naked_ almost making up for the lack of body armor. And she doesn't have time to waste on trivialities as she drops six levels, nimbly dodges half a dozen booby traps and slides to a stop next to the bed she shares with Clint. Knees press into carpet as she drags the footlocker out, thumbs pushing locks up and open, purple-swirled lid thudding carelessly to the floor. "He's going to kill me for that," she grumbles to herself, grabbing two things before throwing herself to her feet and running back the way she'd come, leather biting into one hand, black-and-purple silk trailing from the other.

The elevator makes her growl, too slow, too confined, too many walls between her and Clint and no way to deal with it except to _wait._

"Back," she says, not bothering to shut the door.

"I have it." Thor moves past her, sealing them all inside Tony's bedroom again.

She's already slithering past Tony on the bed, careful not to touch Clint as she hovers close. "I'm here," she whispers, backing off a little when he twitches, shaking his head, legs jerking spasmodically. "Eyes? Talk to me."

Clint's eyes slit open, dazed and--

"Tasha?"

She holds up a hand, palm out towards Bruce where he's still sitting calmly, but the worry is pouring off him, pouring off all of them, and they don't know, they don't know what this is, and-- "Clint. Which do you need?"

Clint doesn't answer, she hadn't expected one, but he rolls to his back and arches his neck, baring his throat so she can wrap the collar around him, buckle the two-inch wide strip of purple-black leather in place. His breathing evens out almost instantly, muscles going lax at her "I have your back, I'm on watch now."

The brush of a hand on her calf is tentative, questioning, and Natasha takes the time to urge Clint to his side with voice and body before glancing back to Tony. "Bad op. Sometimes he needs someone he trusts to watch his back before he can stand down." She runs two fingers over the edge of the collar, and Clint sighs, leaning back into her in a half-doze.

"This isn't--" The bed shakes with Steve's flinch.

"You heard him, he's been fighting this since two am. More than nine hours before Tony figured it out." 

"So he's good now?" Bruce's voice is shading into Hulk's rougher tones, and the fight to stay mostly human is visible in the ripple and clenching of muscles before it subsides.

"As long as I'm here with him, yes." She curls around Clint, tucking her arm between his where they cross his chest, and just breathes, letting his scent settle her own need to protect, the instincts she knows she won’t be able to satisfy. There’s motion around her, Tony leaving the bed, Thor retaking his position by the wall, Steve turning the page and pressing pencil back to paper, but she doesn’t care, doesn’t think much of it until there’s another hand, the same hand, on her calf, and a warm washcloth in front of her.

Tony’s expression is understanding, concerned but not _worried_ as it had been before, as she takes the cloth and tenderly wipes Clint clean, soothing the squirms and discomfort at oversensitization with a calm touch, a quiet word or two in Russian.

“Can I ask,” Tony starts after reclaiming the washcloth, “if the two of you...?” And he jerks his chin sideways, at the way she’s wrapped around her partner, the way he’s deadweight in her arms.

“Not exactly.” She runs her fingers down Clint’s arm, presses a soft kiss to his shoulder. The way Steve’s face tenses at the motion makes her retake her previous position, but she doesn’t know whether it’ll be enough and doesn’t ask. “We’re each other’s exception. He’s the only man I’ve ever chosen to take to my bed. I’m the only woman he’s ever slept with.”

A deadly, trembling silence runs through the room at her words; she knows they don’t know how to react, what questions to ask, and this is neither time nor place for explanations.

“Tasha.”

She twists herself around and stares in shock; the threat in Tony’s voice promised death and destruction. “Don’t, Tony, it’s not worth it. Most of them are dead anyways.”

Tony holds her gaze for a long moment, his own stone cold and harder than she’d thought him capable of before softening, an unspoken acknowledgement of who she is, who they are. “Is--this okay?” His voice broke in slight hesitation, unsure of whether she’d take it as an insult, an attack.

She gives him a ghost of a smile, she has to. “It wouldn’t matter who’s in the middle. I’d still be here.” They’ve all seen each other injured, exhausted, when the need to be clean overrides the need for privacy, when they’re just thankful that it was clothes and body armor that gets destroyed and not the bodies underneath, but this is the first time they’ve been together in a sexual situation, and she doesn’t blame him for asking, for making sure that she’s comfortable. “The rest of you okay? It’s not just _us_ here.”

Steve’s ears turn bright red, but his voice is steady when he says, “Not my first time at the rodeo.”

Tony laughs and shakes his head, and Natasha presses another kiss to Clint’s skin before glancing up at Bruce.

His eyes gleam a too-bright green, thick lips spreading wide in a smile as he says, “Hulk not smash Cupid,” and laughs, deeper than his normal chuckle, and it’s clear that the two are cooperating at a level they’ve never managed before.

Thor echoes Bruce’s laughter, and everyone else, save Clint, is helpless not to join in, the sound cathartic and relaxing.

Tony tosses the washcloth on the bedside table before boosting himself onto the bed and scooting up behind Natasha, leaning down to brush the back of her neck with his lips. “He doing okay?”

Tony already knows the answer, because he’s a meta, but he asks anyways, because her bond with Clint goes back much deeper than his own, than the team, even after almost a year, and he respects that. And he doesn’t want the rest of the team to have to ask. “It’ll be a while, I think. He’ll probably go after me first, but...Steve?”

“Mmm?” Steve glances up at her, his gaze flickering from hers to Clint’s form half curled in front of her, to Tony’s propped up on one arm behind.

“JARVIS is recording this, so don’t worry about getting it all down right now,” she says, entirely serious. She’s amused, both by the blush and the fact that he can’t be doing anything other than nude portraits, and why oh _why_ hadn’t he asked them to pose, it’s not like any of them would say _no,_ but it’s _Steve,_ and he’s blushing, color spreading over his cheekbones. “You’re up next, if Hulk doesn’t mind?”

“Hulk not smash Cupid.”

“First?” It’s Thor that asks, curious more than confused, but still.

“Clint’s gay. I can provide him with some relief, but it would only take the edge off.” She has to suppress the urge to squirm, or to elbow Tony, as he rests his chin on her arm; his beard tickles.

“Huh,” Tony mumbles into her skin. “Special snowflake then.”

“Mm-hmm.” Somehow Natasha doesn’t think she's quite managed to hide the visceral response to Tony’s touch and voice in her acknowledgement, but damned if she's going to admit to it, and lets herself relax, half supported on Clint’s lax body and half by Tony’s pressed close behind.

For the next little while, there is a quiet anticipation, the sound of Steve’s pencil on paper, the occasional brush of skin-on-skin as if to reassure one another of their continued presence.

“Tasha.” Clint’s voice is ragged, not unexpected, as Natasha’s felt every caught breath, every shift of muscle as Clint’s body gears itself up; she’s the only one who doesn’t flinch at the sound of it, and she arches her body backwards, pushing at Tony for space.

“I’m here, right here,” she says, setting her teeth in hard muscle and biting just hard enough to mark, running her hand down his chest, skimming his arm, tracing the narrow line of hair below his belly button. “Whatever you need--” and the rest is lost as he rolls over, pushing her to her back and hovering, staring at her as if asking permission yet again, and she lifts her knees, hooking one over the jut of a hipbone in invitation.

Clint doesn’t move, just watches her with need fogging the sorrow and regret in his eyes.

“Whatever you need, Clint,” she says again. “I mean that.” She reaches down and wraps a hand around him, where he’s thick and hard and twitching in the curl of her fingers, and pulls gently, watching him close his eyes and shudder. “I’m here, Clint.”

The surge of his body over hers is beautifully familiar, the timing exquisite as it always is, but this is nothing new, not to them, and Clint’s observational skills are as sharp in bed as they are on the job. He’s known how to give her pleasure, how to take his own from her body, since the first time they fell into bed together despite his orientation.

She lets herself get lost in the dance, lets Clint’s knowledge of her body, of every sensitive spot, the meaning of every gasp and groan and clench of muscles drive the regret out of her mind with every thrust and roll of her hips, every caress of his hands, brush of lips on skin and whispered endearment. She’s coming before she’s ready for it, muscles spasming around him, and her fingers leave bruises in his back, thin pink lines raked over his ribs as he doesn’t stop, just keeps going, pushing her from one orgasm to another, until he stutters to a stop, mouth in the hollow of her throat.

Clint’s still hard inside her, still stretching her deliciously full, and she aches a little, knowing she can’t satisfy him on her own. “Clint?” His name rolls breathlessly off her lips, hand cupping his jaw, her thumb rubbing back and forth over the faint rasp of stubble.

“Tasha, I,” she feels his face crumple where it’s pressed against her neck, “I can’t--”

“I know, Clint, it’s all right. That’s why there’s five of us here,” she murmurs against his scalp. “Think you can let Steve make you feel better?” The resultant half-sob, half-laugh makes her body jerk in an aftershock, clench around him, and she almost misses the hand brushing over her own, the way Clint’s body shifts over her own with the prompting of another body.

The pale skin of Steve’s arm blocks out most of her peripheral vision as Steve props himself over them both, free hand running down Clint’s back. “Whatever you need,” Steve says, echoing her own reassurance in a voice rough with caring and patience. “Whenever you’re ready,” and she’s sure, suddenly, that his _“not my first time at the rodeo”_ wasn’t just about not being the virgin most people assumed him to be.

She meets Steve’s gaze over the top of Clint’s head, and knows her curiosity will go unsatisfied, but that’s all right; there are plenty of things she won’t talk about, either.


End file.
